


Revision of History

by linda92595



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linda92595/pseuds/linda92595
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>:  AU story.  Out- of -character behavior, questionable consent, violence, sexual violence and abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revision of History

**Donal Woods, Scotland**

**January 1, 2001**

 

 

The witch stood in the center of the magic circle she had so carefully constructed using the glyphs pictured in the ancient tome resting on the crude stone altar. A fire burned in the stone-ringed pit casting a faint redish glow to the witch’s beautiful face. Her green eyes glowed with an insane intensity as she gathered the stones and herbs listed in the Necromancer’s Handbook. “Oh, Ianna, goddess, hear me!” the Witch’s voice rang out against the night winds. “Oh, mother of the earth, goddess, grant your servant Cassandra my plea.”

 

Carefully she took the leather pouch, which had taken four years of hard searching to find, out of the pocket of her blue velvet gown. In one slender hand Cassandra held up a large blue-white crystal almost as big as her fist. With trembling fingers she carefully lowered the stone to the altar. “Ianna, I bring you the Chronos Stone, the traveler’s doorway, cornerstone to all time, forward and back. Let me cast myself outward, my mind to theirs. Let me make my intentions known to them who have wronged me.”

 

**Duncan Macleod’s Barge,**

**Paris**

 

 

The barge was swathed in dim light as the early morning sun crept above the waterline of the Seine. The dimly lit interior was barely touched by the thin fingers of gray light that struggled feebly against the cold January skies. The pale light traveled the length of the barge resting on the huge, king-sized bed pressed against one bulkhead. Snuggled into the thick, rich green coverlet was Duncan MacLeod. The Highlander snuffled in his sleep, moving restlessly as his dreams overtook him.

 

Rolling over he found himself standing in the abandoned submarine base watching as Cassandra leveled the battle-axe over the head of his ancient friend. “No!” He screamed, “I want him to live.” His voice rattled through the darkness in the barge and in the cavernous concrete room in MacLeod’s dream. “Cassandra, I want him to live.” The dark needy growl sent a shiver through the sleeping man and his voice dropped to a smooth sibilant whisper, “I want him...”

 

**Methos’ Apartment,**

**Paris**

 

 

Lying in his low bed Methos rolled onto his side, sweat dripped off the ancient Immortal’s brow. He murmured restlessly in his sleep as the image of a blue clad woman swam before his eyes. The bright firelight cast an eerie glow over her slender features then cleared enough for Methos to recognized Cassandra. He gasped as from somewhere far away he could hear Duncan MacLeod’s voice rolling like thunder, “I want him to live!” The voice rang out hoarsely. Cassandra turned sneering at the Highlander, and his face floated into Methos’ field of vision, “I want him to live,” the dream MacLeod hissed then the voice dropped an octave rumbling, “I want him...”

 

If they had awakened both men might have remarked on the clarity of the dream each was having before arising. In both men’s minds was the image of the stone altar ablaze with an eerie blue light, and the smiling blue clad woman standing behind the fire.  She turned toward the dream images of the two men as they lay in their separate beds still far closer in desire than she could have imagined.

 

 “You, Horseman, kept me from my freedom, and you, Highlander, kept me from my revenge. I should have known he had corrupted you, Duncan. I thought that we had a special friendship, but you chose him over me. Now you both will suffer. And this light shall lead the way. I have brought forth the Chronos Stone, the doorway to time.

I shall set your feet on the path, and Duncan shall be the vessel of my revenge on you, Horseman. I could have cursed you to become what you once were, but that is no revenge at all. So I have set my plans. You, Duncan, shall be what you despised, and you, Methos, shall serve in my stead."

 

She continued hissing out her next words, "I send you now to the ancient past. You will not remember this place unless it is in shadows without substance, dream images. To all who see you it will appear as if you have always been there and belong there. And you will not remember each other as friend, but since you desire this viper Duncan you will remember your lust for him.”

 

“I am, however, bound by the laws of the Necromancer. And in this I am forced, but no matter.  This doorway will go on before you, and will always be there for you to open if you can find it. If you find true love together you can travel this path and return here. Only together can you return and if one of you dies then the other will live on through the ages until he arrives here again or dies as well.”

 

**Bronze Age, 1000 B.C.**

 

 

The village, if it could be called that, sat on the banks of the now almost depleted river.  The dry, early autumn winds sizzled over the dusty, hard packed earth blowing sand into almost everything.  The women making bread cursed the winds, but softly, so as to not offend the gods of the skies. Carefully, the senior woman among them threw a scrap of linen cloth over the still rising dough hoping vainly to keep the wind driven sand out of the bread. On the rocks beside the huge adobe brick oven several young children scampered hurrying toward the shallow river in an attempt to ward off the flies buzzing around them.

 

In the door way to one small hut sat an old man. His deep brown skin was weather beaten and wrinkled.  Of course, life was hard and the desert wind and sun weighed heavily upon these nomadic tribal people. Beside the elder man sat a young man. He was fair skinned although the sun was beginning to cast a pinkish glow to his cheeks and prominent nose. His long, dark brown hair fell around a slender, young face shading his enormous green-gold eyes. His long, tapered fingers carefully smoothed a bitter smelling ointment over the wounded man’s arm. Behind the young man his adopted father looked on carefully watching as his son, and the next village shaman, worked the healing magic. After the younger man has wrapped the arm in linen bandages Hijad took the man’s arm speaking the healing words quickly and quietly.

 

Methos glanced up at the older man, “Did I make the salve badly?” he asked as he watched the injured man walk away. Hijad shook his head patiently, tucking a loose stand of hair behind Methos’ ear so he could look into the younger man’s face. “No you made it perfectly.”

 

“Then why did you make the healing magic over him?” A frown crossed Methos’ lean face and he sighed stretching his long legs out in front of him as he settled down awaiting his father’s reply. The shaman sighed as well, “Someday you’re healing abilities will pass my simple skills, and then you will be the shaman of the village.”

 

Shaking his head Methos said earnestly, “No! You will always be here.”

 

Hijad smiled down at the younger man. “Methos,” he said. “One day I will be gone and you will be the only healer in the village. You must pay more attention to the chanting of the healing prayers or the gods will not favor you.”

 

The younger man nodded absently casting a glance over his shoulder, an uneasy expression colored his pale features. Angered by his adopted son’s disrespect the shaman slapped Methos’ face lightly more to gather his wandering attention than to punish. Jerking his head around Methos frowned, but dropped his gaze in deference, “I am sorry, father.” He said. He waited until the shaman touched the back of his neck.

 

“Go down to the river and fetch some more water. I will teach you how to make the ointment this afternoon, after we have eaten mid-day meal.” Hijad said with a gentle smile.

 

Quickly, Methos climbed to his feet picking up the large clay jug used for carrying water to the hut from the river. Something tickled the back of his mind, and Methos was certain that he did not belong here, that he should be somewhere else miles away.  An image almost rose to his eyes of tall buildings impossibly high in the sky, glittering with metal and crystal. The sound of some great beast roaring in the sky overhead caused Methos to whirl searching the pale, cloudless expanse for the approaching monster. Faintly, as if in a dream, Methos could almost see a huge metal bird with out-stretched wings dropping downward. Raising a hand to ward off the evil creature he almost dropped the water jug. 

 

Glancing around to see if anyone was watching the young man carefully rested the heavy clay jug on the riverbank, and climbed the next dune walking along the hard rocky path toward the scraggly scrub brush used to graze the goats.

 

Another sound, clearer and more defined than that of the winged metal beast in the air caught Methos’ attention. The sound of hoof beats carried to his ears. Stumbling over the top of the small rise Methos caught sight of four riders approaching the village at a gallop.

 

The four riders were living nightmares. Each of the four men was big, bulky, dressed in leather armor and beaten metal masks. The first rider wore a plain unadorned bronze mask with thin slits for eyeholes; his black leather armor was covered with thin bronze plaques, which jangled with each step of his black warhorse. A black cloak billowed out behind him.

 

Beside the first rider the second galloped his face too was masked and he also wore black and brown leather clothes and armor, as did the third rider, but it was the fourth rider that drew Methos’ attention. He alone was dressed in white, in this place a color of death and mourning. His beaten metal mask was a gaping skull and a white cloak framed the evil death’s head falling over the rider’s shoulders and arms billowing out behind him like a trailing cloud.

 

With a muffled whimper Methos turned and fled back toward the village, water jar forgotten. His soft boots slid in the shifting sands slowing him, but he was still far ahead of the four riders. Quickly Methos topped the dune, turning once briefly to watch the riders’ progress, and he thought that the white clad rider’s death mask turned toward him, almost as if the man beneath it was staring at the fleeing man. Gasping and panting Methos slid down the dune and scrambled across the dry gully toward the rough, stony path leading to his father’s hut.

 

“Father,” he cried out running toward the thatched hut. “Riders approaching we must do something to defend ourselves.”  Methos glanced around the hut and grounds searching for something, anything, to use as a weapon.

 

The older man held up a hand, “We need not defend ourselves. We have nothing that they would want.”

 

“They’ll want whatever we have, even so little as it is.”

 

“I forbid you to do anything foolish, Methos.” Hijad held his son’s arm. “Come around to the front of the hut. We will meet them there.”

 

With the rest of the village watching Methos and the shaman man walked calmly toward the front of their hut to stand in the open doorway.  Methos tried to push the older man inside the hut, but he wouldn’t go. Stubbornly Hijad waited beside his son watching the riders draw near.

 

The first rider reached the small collection of half tumbled down huts before the others. The three hung back slightly as the black clad rider urged his horse closer. The shaman raised a hand motioning the rider to a halt, “We have nothing that you would want.” He shouted to be heard above the restless shuffling of the horse. The rider jerked his horse’s reins and the big animal stepped sideways, shying nervously.

 

 “Then you die!” he hissed. Pulling a huge, bronze blade from its sheath the black clad rider stabbed the shaman. He crumpled to the ground. Methos gasped rushing forward, throwing himself at the First Horseman, but he tugged his horse backward stabbing Methos in the chest. With a look of horrified disbelief the young man collapsed to the ground.

 

The sounds of women and children screaming and crying came to Methos over the dull buzz in his head. Slowly he turned his head to the side, feeling the heat of the sun on his face and the gritty burn of hot sand beneath his cheek. His eyes watered and blurred as the four riders charged through the small cluster of simple huts. The bright flash of metal blades dancing in the shimmering air mesmerized Methos for the few minutes it took him to bleed out into the dry hard packed earth.

 

 

**Horsemen’s Camp**.

 

 

The white stallion danced lightly over the sand as the Pale Rider tugged at the heavy bundle slung across the horse’s withers. A rough woven carpet of dull wool was rolled around a limp motionless body. The young man in the village had died under Kronos’ blade, but the white clad Horseman had made it clear to his Brother that he wanted the new immortal as a slave. Kronos had grudgingly agreed to give his Brother the pretty young man only after seeing a slender blond girl in the doorway of another of the village’s hovels.

 

The leader of the Four Horsemen walked his black mare, tugging the weakly struggling girl along at the end of a rough hemp rope. The girl’s arms and face were covered in darkening purple bruises that showed through the deep red, sunburned skin. She yanked at the rope hissing in pain and anger, and Kronos jerked her off her feet, letting the horse drag her over the rough, rocky path. The girl whimpered and moaned as the sand scraped her already sun damaged skin raw. Soon her moaning faded. Kronos grunted slowing his horse dropping the reins and quickly dismounting. He stalked to the girl grasping her arms jerking her to her feet.  She stood head hung low, not looking at her new master.

 

Frowning the leader of the Horsemen turned to his second in command, “Well, Brother, I certainly hope that you have better luck with your boy than I have with this one.”

 

The Pale Rider slipped the death’s head mask off, slinging it over the saddle then lowered the rug wrapped bundle to the ground. Careless of the injury to the young man inside he unrolled the rug, tossing the limp body around like a broken doll. Slowly the young man sat up staring at the Horseman, “Where are we? Where is my father? What have you done to my people?”

 

Sneering at the slim young man the Horseman raised a hand and pointed to a group of fresh skulls hanging in a tree to dry after having the flesh boiled off. Caspian was fond of his trophies after all. “There are your people. Would you prefer to join them?”

 

Methos gaped scrambling to his feet, “You killed them all?”

 

The big Horseman smiled grimly, “Yes, and you as well.” He nodded and Methos glanced down at the front of his tunic. A blood drenched rent split the rough woven fabric. Carefully Methos lifted the tunic inspecting the rip, and then pressed his fingertips to the warm skin beneath the cloth.

 

“How can this be? I was dead and now I am alive?”

 

The Horseman smiled as if he knew a secret that the younger man did not, “You live because I wish it. And you will stay alive so long as you please me.”  He reached out stroking his fingertips down the young man’s deeply etched cheekbone. Methos batted the hand away, and the Horseman slapped him sending him sprawling to the ground. “That did not please me.”

 

Quickly the Horseman knelt in the sand, running his hand along the rough woven trousers the young man wore, caressing his firmly muscled thigh, “I am Duncan MacLeod, and you live to serve me. Never forget that.”

 

Tugging the young man to his feet he stalked to his hide tent dragging his captive behind him. “What do they call you?” Duncan snarled as he thrust the tent flap aside hurling his slave inside.  The young man stumbled dropping to the thick pile of furs that served as his master’s bed. Eyes wide Methos trembled slightly tipping his head back in one last show of defiance. Duncan slapped him again and the young man wiped at the thin streak of blood on his lower lip. Finally his face fell as if he realized the hopelessness of his situation.

 

“Methos,” he whispered.

 

 Duncan smiled, “Methos, so you can learn after all.”

 

Grunting Duncan settled on the furs motioning the young man to his side. Methos scrabbled on his knees the short distance between them, and that seemed to please the Horseman. He lifted an arm, nodding down at the leather wrist guard.

 

Carefully Methos unlaced the wrist guard setting it on the low folding table beside the bed. He repeated the procedure with the second wrist guard, and then moved around behind Duncan to unlace the leather cuirass and heavy leather scabbard crossing the Horseman’s chest.  Then quickly Methos moved around to pull the heavy boots from his master’s feet. With his boots and armor removed Duncan rose, “Help me with my garments.”

 

Swallowing nervously Methos pulled the laces on the tunic loosening the front so that the Horseman could pull the garment over his head. With trembling fingers the young slave reached out and pulled the drawstring on the white woolen trousers. As the garments slipped free Methos felt his eyes drawn to his master’s body.

 

The man was only slightly taller than Methos himself, but more heavily built--the sleek golden skin pulled taut over hard, cleanly cut muscles. Without understanding why the young slave felt his eyes wandering lower across the muscled planes of his master’s chest, lightly furred with brown hair, farther down to the thick, dark, course curls at the man’s groin and the length of flesh lying acquiescent against the Horseman’s thigh. 

 

Suddenly Methos looked away heat rising in his face, staining his cheeks crimson. Duncan smiled wolfishly tugging the new immortal’s face around he leaned forward letting his lips trail over the high cheekbones and along the tight jaw. The young slave struggled pushing at the Horseman’s chest, “No! Please don’t.”

 

The big man laced his fingers through Methos’ soft hair twisting a handful to pull the young man close, “Oh yes.” he sighed. Carefully lowering the younger man to the furs he stroked one hand over the rough cloth leaning down to tug the soft leather boots off narrow feet, “Take these off.” he ordered.

 

Methos struggled briefly then slowly lifted the tunic over his head raising his shoulders off the furs to pull the garment free. Blushing furiously he unknotted the drawstring in his trousers and slipped them over his narrow hips, kicking them off his legs.

 

Duncan smiled stroking the sleek nearly hairless chest, watching carefully as the younger man flinched away from his questing fingers. Seizing the long, dark hair again he flung Methos down on the furs straddling his slim hips. Panic surged on Methos’ face, and he thrust both hands up trying to force the heavier man off him. Laughing Duncan leaned down using the younger man’s hair to pull his face forward, “Have you ever lain with a man before?” he hissed.

 

 Eyes wide Methos shook his head, “I’ve never lain with anyone. It is forbidden for a shaman to do such a thing.”

 

“A virgin?” Duncan leered leaning down to force his lips over the younger man’s mouth. Methos tried to cry out, struggling until the Horseman slapped him again, forcing his knee into the small of the slave’s back, holding him in place. “Get used to it.” Duncan said coldly.

 

Quickly he tugged a clay lamp over to the furs dipping his fingers inside.  Cocking his head and smiling Duncan traced his fingers down the soft skin of Methos’ back then dipped his fingers into the cleft between the rounded buttocks.

 

Methos stiffened as the Horseman rubbed his fingers against the puckered opening hidden deep in the warm cleft. With the other hand Duncan stroked Methos’ back, whispering against the soft skin of the younger man’s neck. The warm breath tickling his flesh caused Methos to shiver involuntarily. He moaned in fear as an unknown warmth began to unfurl in his belly. Struggling the slave tried to thrust, stroking his own heated member over the warm furs.

 

Duncan nipped at the younger man’s neck feeling the tight shoulders begin to loosen, and then quickly pressed a finger into the entrance to Methos’ body. Duncan pulled his hand back then quickly drizzled more oil on his skin. Two of his fingers slipped in and the younger man’s body jerked as he tried to fling off his captor. Duncan rode the trembling body grunting as his erection slipped into the oiled crevice. With a low moan he pulled his fingers out and thrust forward feeling his hard penis slip past the tight ring of muscle guarding Methos’ entrance. The slave bucked furiously trying to throw the Horseman off, but Duncan used his greater weight to hold the lean, wiry body in place.

 

Methos moaned again louder and Duncan was certain that the younger man wasn’t moaning in pain. Quickly he pushed them both upwards so that Methos rested on his hands and knees. Thrusting his hand under his bedmate Duncan grasped the hard flesh jutting out from Methos’ body. Stroking the length of flesh in time to his thrusts the Horseman quickened his pace until he felt the other man spasm beneath him. The warm, silky fluid spurting over his fingers and the clenching muscles sent the Horseman into his own climax. He collapsed onto the younger man’s back bearing them both to the surface of the bed.

 

Rolling over the Horseman grunted pulling Methos’ trembling body into his arms. The younger man slid closer to the Horseman only because he was not given any alternative. Duncan looked down at Methos’ face seeing the undisguised revulsion on the tight features. Laughing he said, “Not bad for an amateur.”

 

He yawned, “I wouldn’t try to escape if I were you. We’re miles from any water but the spring here and there is no settlement within walking distance. And the horses are trained to not let anyone but us touch them. If they didn’t kick you to death one of us would get you. I might be more forgiving than my Brothers, but not much.”

 

He snuggled against the furs rolling away from the hide covering the entrance to the tent. Smiling he slid a long dagger from under the edge of the furs laying it close at hand. A sudden shuffling of feet pulled a ragged sigh from him as he rose to see the naked slave fleeing the tent.

 

Methos was surprisingly quick, and he made it almost to the center of the camp before the Horseman caught up with him. The dagger flashed through the air catching the young slave squarely between the shoulder blades. Kronos dressed only in a loose fitting tunic stood in the doorway of his own tent. He grinned ferally as Duncan charged naked through the camp. Leaning against the tent post he watched as the young man went down, Duncan’s hunting knife wedged deeply in his back.

 

Duncan stooped, hauling the limp body over his shoulder he glanced up at his brother, “Well, he can’t say I didn’t warn him.”

 

“At least he isn’t a whiner like mine. I swear she hasn’t shut up yet. I may kill her just for the peace and quiet.” the leader of the Horseman casually flicked the tent flap aside snarling at the shadowed figure huddled within, “Do you hear that girl?”

 

Turning back to Duncan, Kronos said, “Just be sure that you have him under control by the time we move the camp for the winter.”

 

“Don’t worry I’ll take great pleasure in breaking this one,” he said with a smile. Kronos watched him hauling the dead body of the young immortal back to the tent.

 

“Oh, I bet you will.”

 

Flinging the hide doorway to the tent aside Duncan tossed the slave face down on the pile of furs then seized the knife still sticking out of his back. Viciously jerking the knife out of the lean hard muscled back Duncan sat back on his heels watching as the younger immortal’s quickening healed the deep, jagged wound.

 

With a sharp indrawn breath that ended in a hiss of pain Methos came back to life. Cringing he rolled over glaring up at his captor, but the Horseman merely laughed. “I can see that you don’t like dying, good because…” he lunged forward grasping the younger immortal’s hair twisting it until Methos cried out in pain. “I will kill you as many times as necessary to tame you.”

 

Leaning forward the Horseman pressed his mouth to the younger man’s lips, caressing the small well-formed mouth with the tip of his tongue. Methos struggled, but was forced, by the necessity of breathing, to open his mouth. Duncan swooped in thrusting his tongue into the wet heat of Methos’ mouth. The tickling sensations of the Horseman’s tongue caressing his teeth and the roof of his mouth sent another shiver down Methos’ spine, and he closed his eyes, knowing he was damned by the gods for taking pleasure in being ravished this way.

 

Without realizing it Methos raised his hands, stroking over the hard planes of Duncan’s back until he grasped his firm buttocks pulling Duncan close to him. The Horseman growled pressing the younger man down on the bed, groaning as Methos’ long elegant fingers found and roughly caressed his nipples. With a sigh Methos tipped his head back so that Duncan could feast on the long column of his neck, nibbling then licking the warm, salty skin.

 

With firm sure strokes Duncan licked his way down the long, body, stopping briefly to suckle the small hard nipples before moving on to the shallow indent of Methos’ navel.

Finally he moved to the hot, hungry cock standing straight out from Methos’ flat belly. Letting his tongue travel the length of flesh Duncan breathed in the hot, musky sent of his slave’s arousal. Slowly, Duncan licked up Methos’ erection using the tip of his tongue to push the foreskin away from the glisten tip. Taking a deep breath he sucked Methos’ penis into his mouth swallowing around the hard length. Methos bucked up from the bed, but Duncan grasped his hips holding him down, and Methos moaned in protest, “Oh please, please…” he whispered.

 

Grinning Duncan released the needy flesh, “Please,” he echoed in a silky purr, “Please what?”

 

With a deep groan Methos arched his back, trying vainly to force Duncan to suck him. A dull flush spread across his high cheeks as Methos locked his gaze on that of the Horseman, “Please, Duncan, suck me…” he sighed, his voice a smoky whisper.

 

The deep needy sound sent a shiver through the Horseman’s body; still he grasped Methos’ hair, tugging, “Duncan?” he growled. The slave’s eyes flew wide then narrowed and Duncan stilled, as he watched the younger man lay back on the thick furs, stroking his fingers over his flesh, catching the pearly drops from the weeping tip and sucking his own fingers into his mouth, lapping the fluid up.

 

Duncan shivered again, and instead of the hot, musty tent an image of Methos’ pale, long body spread out on a dark green, rich fabric on a large and imposing bed rose to his mind. His breath caught in a sudden gasp. “ _How long have I waited to see you like this, Methos?”_ he thought, but the image faded as suddenly as it had come. Cursing the Horseman jerked his slave’s hair, “Duncan?” he repeated.

 

Methos cringed, “Master,” he said. And Duncan smiled then lowering his head down to capture the tip of Methos’ slightly wilted erection. The slave’s flesh leapt into his mouth, and a small gush of fluid erupted on Duncan’s tongue. Sucking the length of Methos’ cock deep in his throat Duncan slipped his fingers between the rounded globes of his ass, seeking the tender rosebud of flesh.  His moistened fingertips parted the tight ring of muscle and Duncan thrust two fingers inside, finding and stroking the hard gland inside that made Methos moan and thrust his hips. Suddenly the younger man came with a hoarse shout. Duncan swallowed the hot, slightly bitter fluid with a deep rush of pleasure.

 

This time Methos started to roll onto his belly voluntarily, but Duncan stopped him. Spreading the slave’s long thighs, he pushed Methos’ legs up until the younger man caught his knees holding himself open. Duncan pulled his fingers free and sank his aching flesh into the tight, hot channel.

 

Duncan was still thrusting into the hot body beneath him when the flap of the tent parted; he barely paused as he saw Kronos standing in the entrance of the tent. The First Horseman said nothing merely stood watching as his Brother fucked the young slave vigorously. Methos was moaning, his own hard cock held firmly in one hand as his master drove into him with increasing speed. Suddenly Duncan froze, uttering a hoarse curse as he came. Methos gave one last hard tug on his own cock and spilled his essence over his fingers. With a cold smile the First Horseman stalked across the tent to the bed. Duncan rolled onto his back grinning up at his Brother, “See I told you I’d get him under control.”

 

“Oh, yes, you certainly have at that.” With a lightening quick gesture Kronos seized Methos’ hair tugging his head back locking his gaze on the young Immortal’s face. “Well, he is a beauty. I think I might take him this evening....” There was an edge to the statement that almost made it a question not a command.

 

Shrugging casually Duncan nodded, “If you’re so inclined, Brother. He’s not fresh anymore, but I think I’ve broken him in well enough that you’d enjoy the ride.”

 

Laughing the other man nodded, his pale, icy blue eyes never shifted from the slave’s face, “I’m glad to see you’re all for sharing, Brother, since we share everything. However, I saw a plump little girl that looked sweet, and juicy, and I think that I might take her -- especially since I gave Caspian the blonde. I’m afraid that there won’t be much left to reclaim.” Kronos smiled again not sounding the least bit afraid or even overly concerned at the blonde girl’s fate. “Keep your boy, enjoy him...”

 

The unspoken “for now” hung in the air even as the leader of the Horseman ducked beneath the low hanging hide covering the tent opening. Methos stared after him as a confused tangle of memories assaulted him. From some dark recess of his mind he struggled to reclaim a bit of memory, of a dark haired young woman being dragged out of the tent by Kronos as he, Methos, stood caressing a piece of fruit fighting the urge to stalk out of the tent and re-claim his prize.

 

The memory grew stronger, and a sharp pain in his head made Methos gasp. He flinched as a wave of dizziness washed over him. The memory lengthened as the young slave saw himself dressed in white, half his face painted blue, astride the pale horse his master rode.

 

“No!” Methos cried out, thrashing against the rising tide of memories. He turned anguished eyes to the Horseman, “No! I am not that...”

 

With a wince Duncan seized the younger man’s shoulders shaking him, “Don’t forget yourself, boy. You’ll do what you’re told. And if my Brother wants a piece of your delightful ass, you’ll lay down for him. Don’t ever forget who you are.”

 

Shaking his head Methos lowered his gaze to the pile of thick furs beneath his body, as yet another memory floated to the surface. A bed low to the ground covered in black and white striped fur but not real furs like these, some artificial thing. Beside the bed was a limbless stone statue, so very ancient; even now in this place and time it would be old. Methos shivered as he raised his eyes from the book he was reading to stare at the brawny, golden-skinned man standing on the stairs. A shocked look crossed the intruder’s face as he met and held the other immortal’s gaze. Understanding dawned in the deep brown eyes and Duncan’s voice reached out to him.  “Methos?”

 

“Methos,” the Horseman snapped rising up from the bed; he slapped the slave’s face. Shivering the younger man raised his gaze to his master’s face. With a ragged sigh he nodded.

 

“Yes, my Lord Duncan?” Methos said frowning, his breath caught in his chest, what was happening? How did he get here, shouldn’t he be in....Paris? Yes, Paris, in bed in his apartment. Suddenly Methos cried out grasping his head in both hands as Duncan scrabbled to his knees.

 

“What’s wrong, boy?”

 

Swinging around Methos took in his surroundings, a tent. In fact, a tent identical to the ones he had lived in for a thousand years. The thousand years he rode with the Horsemen. The furs were rough under his bare knees and Methos crawled away from the hard body lying beside him. Duncan rose up following. Grabbing the younger man by the arm he twisted it viciously.  Methos cried out in pain. “Look at me,” Duncan snarled. “You had better get yourself under control. I will call Lord Kronos back and send you with him if you persist in acting like you are mad.”

 

“Kronos!” Methos said, eyes widening in fear, “No...Please...my Lord Duncan. I wish only to serve you.”  Duncan seemed mollified with that and settled back on the furs pulling Methos along with him. Duncan’s broad, sword callused palms stroked the fine skin of his slave’s back, and the trembling in the slighter man’s body eased.

 

Methos lay still feeling the other man’s body go lax in sleep. The late afternoon heat was not quite stifling so he thought that it must be autumn. He knew this place, on the caravan trails between Tell-Bank and Urk-- two of the largest city-states in Sumer.  Close to the place where the Horsemen had found Cassandra’s village, where he had taken her.  Suddenly Methos gasped, but remained as still as possible so that he wouldn’t awaken the other man.

 

From his state of undress and the body fluids still drying on, and inside, his body Methos was sure that he and Duncan had had sex. And while he had quite often dreamed of laying in the Scot’s arms he would have liked to remember how he got here. Also they appeared to have somehow been transported back in time to the Bronze Age. The fact that they were so obviously near the place that he had found Cassandra sparked a deep suspicion in Methos’ mind that the witch had somehow done this to them, but how he couldn’t imagine. Although a vague memory teased at the corner of his mind, an artifact Kronos had once told him about, ancient even now.

 

Also it was more than obvious that Cassandra had reversed their roles in this re-play of history. Methos was cast in Cassandra’s role, the helpless slave. And Duncan...Well that didn’t bear thinking about. Duncan MacLeod, the finest man that Methos had ever known, was a stone-cold killer -- Death on a horse. The man that Methos had been, and that thought alone made Methos want to retch.

 

Duncan muttered fitfully in his sleep, rolling onto his side, and Methos quickly scrambled out of the bed. His headache had eased to a dull thumping, but he still felt queasy as he poured water from a large clay jar into a shallow bowl. Picking up a rough linen cloth Methos bathed some of the drying semen off his skin and redressed in his clothes. Drawing a deep breath he picked up the clay jar and lifted the tent flap.

 

Slaves were scurrying around the camp, going through the innumerable tasks that had always seemed to fill their time. Women were building several large cook fires; one under a large cauldron hung on a metal tripod, which Methos knew would be filled with cooking grain, something like couscous. Another woman and two teenaged girls were raking coals over a pit in which a lamb or young goat would be roasting for the evening meal. Yet another woman was baking circles of flat bread on a heated rock, while watching over vegetables that were marinating in oil and spices The Horsemen and their favored slaves would gather around the fire later, as night drew on, drinking watered wine and eating the meal prepared by these more common slaves.

 

Careful not to draw unwanted attention Methos moved to the small, shallow stream that ran through the camp. He knelt dipping the water jug into the stream watching as the water trickled into the neck of the jar. When the water level was sufficiently high he rose staggering a little under the weight, and headed back to his, no, Duncan’s tent.

 

“Trouble little one?” A deep, rolling voice said from somewhere behind Methos and he flinched. Silas strode up to him taking the jar from his numb fingers. “Let me carry that for you.”

 

“Oh, I can manage, my Lord Silas...” Methos said a deep ache welling up in his chest as the image of a dank concrete building surrounded him, along with another stronger image of Methos on his knees weeping, “ _I killed Silas....I liked Silas_.”

 

“But you shouldn’t have too. Get one of these others to fetch and carry for you...A boy as pretty as you are shouldn’t lift anything this heavy.” A wide smiled graced the broad simple face, and Methos felt tears sting in his eyes... “ _How could I have killed him?”_

 

“Here now don’t cry. It’ll be all right in the end, you’ll see.” Silas patted Methos’ head then turned, trudging silently to the tent and deposited the jar on the floor just inside the opening. Head hung low Methos scrambled into the tent tugging the water jar further inside the dim interior.

 

Quickly he pushed the tent flap open and pulled a small coal brazier over so that the smoke would escape the tent into the deepening twilight. Once the coals were lit and banked properly he sat a bronze cauldron over the fire to heat water for his master’s evening bath. He knew the process so well; Methos thought bitterly, after all, how many times had he watched some slave perform this same task? 

 

Duncan would be stiff and sore from riding all day, and the aroma coming from the still lax body on the furs was anything but appealing. Quickly Methos rummaged through the clothing lying on a small trestle table, which could be folded for moving, coming up with clean linen clothes for the bath and a fresh tunic and leggings for after. A woven basket settled beside the door held dirty garments, and Methos sighed. In the morning he would have to drag them down to the river and wash them. A crumbling bar of lye soap was nestled in a shallow clay dish. He would also have to check with the kitchen slaves for more soap. Although he was trapped in this waking nightmare his standards of cleanliness hadn’t reverted just yet.

 

A shuffling noise from the bed drew Methos’ attention and he rose stiffly to his feet cocking his head as Duncan rose up. The other man strolled casually over to where his slave stood clutching the linen washcloth in a clenched fist. “What are you doing?”

 

Swallowing Methos said, “I heated some water for your bath before evening meal.  I thought that you might be sore from riding...”

 

Smiling Duncan raised a hand stroking it over the other man’s cheek, “You thought did you...” With sudden blinding force he slapped Methos hard enough to send him reeling. “I don’t want you for your mind. Don’t think.”

 

Scrambling to his knees Methos waited eyes downcast. “Forgive me, my Lord Duncan...” he whispered. The other man merely stood eyes not seemingly focused on his slave.  Carefully Duncan raised a hand touching the thin string of blood drying on Methos’ lower lip. Methos froze steeling himself for another blow, eyes widening in fear, but it never fell.

 

Duncan cocked his head to one side staring into the other man’s green-gold eyes. He had only seen fear on that carefully guarded face once before. Straining his mind Duncan caught a fleeting glimpse of a wind swept street beneath a dark, musty smelling bridge. A voice, shaken and weary echoed in his mind, “ _I can’t beat him...Maybe together we_ _can._...” The image faded abruptly, clutching his temples Duncan cried out as pain blossomed in his head, uncoiling like a serpent. With a muttered curse he grasped his aching head staggering away from the man kneeling at his feet.

 

Methos rose stumbling a few steps forward, “Duncan...” he hissed then repeated more loudly, “Are you ill, my Lord Duncan?”

 

“What?” Suddenly the Horseman snarled wrapping his fist in the slightly smaller man’s hair pulling him forward, “Your concern touches me, but never forget who you are.”

 

“No, my Lord Duncan, I am your slave.” Methos said slipping to his knees again, “and I cannot forget who you are…Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

 

“You heard my Brothers say that.” Duncan scoffed shoving Methos prone on the rough sand floor of the tent, but the other man shook his head. Rising up he scrambled on his knees looking intently up at this man that he had loved for so long. Methos’ long, elegant fingers brushed down his master’s thigh, clutching lightly, trembling against the tawny golden skin.

 

“No, I have heard you say it many times before.”

 

“You lie,” The Horseman said, but his voice trembled unevenly and an uneasy expression colored his features, “You lie to me, boy, and I’ll see you share Caspian’s bed tonight. Then I won’t ever have to worry about lying to me again.”

 

Methos paled remembering all too well the few times he and Kronos had gone to watch Caspian and his “partners” at play. The bloodshed had been horrendous, and Kronos had been the beneficiary of Methos’ arousal, long into the night. “Please, my Lord Duncan forgive me I over spoke myself.”

 

Glancing at the fading light Duncan padded naked to the brazier, and the water heating in the bronze cauldron. Carefully he used the wooden handle to tip the pot, pouring water into a glazed shallow clay bowl. Gathering up the soap and scented oil he motioned Methos over. Quickly Methos moved to his side, washing and oiling Duncan’s skin.

 

Duncan motioned to the shaving knife. Methos picked it up and Duncan settled on a folding chair while Methos carefully lathered his face. Quickly Methos straddled Duncan’s thighs then shaved him in even, practiced strokes. “When you’re finished wash yourself and dress for evening meal.”

 

While Methos bathed Duncan dressed in clean garments then moved to a wooden trunk in the corner of the tent, looking through the pile of silks and expensive fabrics tucked inside. With a smile he pulled two garments out tossing them over to the other man, “Wear these.” he settled back watching as Methos bathed, spreading his legs to  wash the dried semen off his thighs and buttocks. A calculated smile crossed his face as he watched the long elegant fingers trail over the younger man’s creamy pale skin.

 

Once Methos had worked the brush into a creamy lather he shaved the sparse growth of beard on his face and neck, and then turned to place the knife on the table, but Duncan stopped him. Grinning he tapped Methos’ chest and Methos shaved the small, sparse triangle of hair between his breasts. Then Duncan tapped his arms, with a sigh Methos raised his arms, shaving them. “Enough, my Lord Duncan?”

 

“Not quite,” he smiled letting his fingers travel the length of Methos torso to the thatch of curls at his groin, “Here too.”

 

With a smoldering grin Duncan watched as Methos lathered the skin, and then slowly lowered the razor. Using one hand to grip his penis Methos shaved as quickly as he dared. Duncan’s rapt gaze was doing more to arouse him than Methos handling his own genitals. By the time that he was finished denuding his skin Methos was half-hard again.

 

“Pleasure yourself...” Duncan said roughly. Methos’ eyes widened, and he flushed crimson.

 

“My Lord?”

 

“Pleasure yourself, I want to watch,” Duncan said leering as Methos stroked the scented salve over the bare skin of his abdomen, and along the length of warm flesh. He grew erect immediately; he had always been something of an exhibitionist and having someone watch him perform this most intimate and private task excited him incredibly.

 

Rolling his head back Methos sighed as he grasped his throbbing penis. He could feel the quick beat of his pulse in his cock and his throat. Quickly wrapping his hand around himself, he tugged in firm, even strokes.

 

The shuffle of feet brought Methos back to sudden awareness of his surroundings and his eyes flew open still partially dilated with passion, but also wary and uncertain. 

 

Kronos and Silas ambled causally into the dim interior of the tent, the scent of food and wine heavy on them. Finally Caspian shuffled in dragging the blonde girl. Her hair hung limply down over her face and shoulders, and Methos was shocked at her appearance.

From the bruises and cuts covering her face to the long, thin cuts running down her arms and across her chest, it seemed as if Caspian had enjoyed her company quite a while.

 

Caspian flung her down on the ground at Methos’ feet. Methos glanced over at Duncan but he merely shrugged raising one eyebrow as a silent smirk covered his face. “Well, get on with it…”

 

Silas and Kronos laughed and Methos swallowed convulsively. “I cannot, please…”

 

“Do it slave,” Kronos snarled as he took a long pull on the wineskin dangling from his fingers. Silas’ huge paw clapped him on the back, and Kronos pushed the wineskin into his hands, moving over to Methos, shoving him against the girl. He winced; she was already cool to the touch, literally almost dead on her feet.  He cringed as Kronos hissed, “Soak her good, boy.”

 

Methos closed his eyes moaning as a memory of almost an identical scene rose to his mind, except that he stood in Duncan’s place watching as a young slave performed this same trick with Cassandra. Although being Immortal her wounds were never that obvious.  The sound of laughter bubbled over him drawing Methos back to the tent, and he swallowed again. Somehow the trick wasn’t quite so funny when you weren’t the one doing the laughing.

 

Sickened he quickened his pace, tugging almost mechanically until, at last, he pulled a brief and unsatisfying orgasm out of his uninterested flesh. The thick, ropy strings of semen hit the girl’s face, but she didn’t even flinch.

 

Silas slapped him on the back again and Methos stumbled, still weak kneed and shaken. He fell against her and the blonde collapsed like a rag doll on the dirt floor of the tent.

 

Caspian sprang forward snarling at Methos, “Look -- you broke her.” But he laughed pulling the girl’s almost lifeless body from the floor and tossing it out the opening of the tent. He hailed two passing slaves, “Here, some more garbage for the refuse heap.”

 

Head pounding Methos knelt on the rough floor, hot tears of shame and rage spilled over his cheeks. Silently he closed his eyes.  Duncan stalked forward, lazily raking his fingers through the long, dark brown hair spilling over his slave’s face and shoulders. Silas staggered backwards a step, and then hefted a wooden keg he had brought with him into the tent. Duncan glanced at the keg then looked questioningly at the larger man, “What is it?” he asked grinning.

 

The big man smiled down at his favorite Brother, “Beer from Egypt. There was an entire cart of it in the caravan we raided last. Fetch some cups, and I’ll tap the keg.”

 

“Cups,” Duncan snapped and Methos scrambled to the low table that held the wine jar. There were several cups sitting beside it, and he carried them back to the Horsemen.  Quickly he handed the cups to the other men, moving to Duncan last. As he raised the cup he glanced at Duncan under lowered lashes. Duncan accepted the cup then frowned.

 

A ringing sound was grating in his mind as the tent seemed to vanish from his sight. Duncan gasped as he found himself standing on a set of circular stairs looking into a dimly lit room. Then suddenly as a light switching on in the darkness the image became blindingly clear.

 

Duncan found himself walking cautiously down the stairs rounding the last turn to find himself looking at a young man dressed in black seated on the floor beside a low, wide bed. The young man glanced up… “ _Mi casa es su casa_ ,” he said smiling primly. And Duncan gasped when he recognized Methos. Almost too causally the young looking man leaned back pulling something off the floor then Duncan caught the object hurled at him looking down as the mocking voice echoed, “ _Duncan MacLeod, have a beer_ …”

 

Shaken Duncan growled seizing the cup, he moved to Silas motioning Methos over to a pile of forgotten garments lying in the floor. “Dress yourself.”

 

Grateful that the other men seemed occupied, and hoping that the more intimate games were over for awhile Methos picked up the clothing and began dressing for the evening to be spent lolling around the cook fires, eating and drinking wine. As he gathered up the garments he winced. They were hardly his choice of eveningwear.

 

The short vest and the trousers, if you could call them that, were very gauzy and diaphanous and left nothing to the imagination. In fact Methos recalled that the garments were typical of the ones worn by temple prostitutes in Urk. They were also made for a woman. With a sigh he shook out the clothing and tugged it on. Well, it wasn’t the first time a man who had owned him made him dress in women’s clothes. In fact, he had spent a good part of the seventeenth century in a dress; at least these things didn’t involve a whalebone corset and silk stockings.

 

The vest was a little abbreviated, having been made for someone shorter in the waist than he, but the trousers were long enough. In fact they seemed to have been made for a woman fuller through the hips because when Methos tugged the drawstring in to tighten them the material pleated providing more coverage than he had thought possible. A pair of leather sandals was on the dirt floor and quickly he tugged them on.  Duncan barely glanced at him as the Horsemen left the tent.

 

 The evening meal had been set out on low wooden tables beside rugs which had been piled near the fire for warmth. Kronos’ slave girl glanced at Methos watching carefully as he piled food on a wooden trencher and carried it back to Duncan. She smiled gratefully at him and hurriedly performed the same service for her new master. Once the four Horsemen were settled, Methos and the other favored slaves carried their own meals to the rugs and settled down, but all consciously keeping aware of their masters’ needs. The Horsemen ate, drank and told tales, then watched as slaves performed music and danced until the fires burned down. Finally, they drifted to their tents.

 

The next morning Methos found himself left unattended as Duncan and Kronos met in Kronos’ tent to discuss the planning of the Horsemen’s next raid. Methos had heard snatches of conversation at breakfast that a huge caravan was coming out of the desert from the south. The Horsemen could easily intercept it before it reached Tell-Bank.

 

Carefully hoisting the woven basket holding all of the dirty laundry Methos fetched several pieces of soap, flinching at the rancid smell of the lye and goat fat, then hiked across the camp to the far side of the river well downstream from the spring currently being used for drinking water. Stripping off his tunic and sandals Methos waded into a shallow area of water near some large flat rocks and began the arduous process of pounding the soap into the clothes, then rising in cleaner water. It took a lot of soap and elbow grease to get Duncan’s white garments clean. Methos sighed, he had often wondered why so many of the slave women had always hated him even though he actually had been far more reasonable than the others. Now he knew; he was the only one who wore white.

 

His own clothing was tended to next then he carried the wet clothes to the brush to be hung and dried.  He sighed, it was almost lunch time. It had taken three hours to wash one small basket of clothes and even with immortal healing his back and arms were killing him. Methos grumbled under his breath. Several of the women were glancing at him over their own wash, and Methos blushed. As far as he knew he was the only male body slave in camp.

 

Carefully he kept his eyes lowered, if the senior woman slave wanted to make his life hell she could. The sound of feet shuffling in the sand drew his attention; she was standing there--a tall, dark haired woman of about thirty. Reaching out she put her finger tips under his chin. He swallowed nervously, “No bruises?” she asked quietly. Methos shook his head.

 

“Humph,” she said then stalked away. Methos wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or not. The other slave women glanced at him then the plump little girl Kronos had taken last night wandered up. She too seemed unmarked and Methos thought that either Kronos had worked out all his aggression on the blonde or the chubby girl was great in the sack. She smiled smugly at him, and he flushed again. “ _Ah well_ ,” he thought, “ _Kronos could be managed for a while, but she was in for a surprise and not for the better.”_

 

Later Methos settled in the shade of a huge date tree, munching on some of the fruit that had been collected after the wash was done and a honey cake he had managed to talk the baker out of while he mended the torn clothes and repaired a damaged wrist guard. In the distance he would make out the huge tent that was used to stable the horses. The black Arabian mare that Kronos rode was in heat again and the white stallion that Duncan rode was pulling at his bridle anxiously trying to meet the biological imperative driving him.

 

After a few minutes Methos closed his eyes trying to stir his memory. The more Methos thought the more he was sure that Kronos had once told him a story of a supposedly enchanted crystal that could open the doors of time. In fact Kronos had laughed hysterically because it was call the...Chronos Stone. “Ouch,” he flinched as the needle passed through the leather armor and into his thumb. Sucking the wounded digit Methos sat up, suddenly still. Yes, the artifact was called the Chronos Stone after the god of time.

 

Smiling Methos muttered to himself, “Yes, yes...”

 

A passing slave looked at him, and then shook his head certain that the young man had been addled by sharing the gruesome Pale Rider’s bed. Methos hardly spared him a glance. The traveler’s doorway...if Cassandra had found the Chronos Stone, and used it she would have been bound by the enchanter’s law. The doorway had to swing both ways, back and forward again. This meant that the Chronos Stone was here with them, somewhere. A way back to where they belonged. But what task did he and Duncan have to complete to travel through the doorway again?

 

Still muttering to himself, Methos rose quickly as he saw Duncan stalking out of the First Horseman’s tent, scowling angrily.  Sighing to himself he scrambled to Duncan’s tent entering only few minutes after his master. Duncan whirled snarling, “Where have you been?”

 

“Washing clothes, my Lord Duncan. And mending your wrist guard, I noticed it was damaged when I removed them. It’s ready to go.”

 

Hoping to assuage the other man’s anger Methos piled the mended laundry on the folding table and poured a cup of the cool, red wine he had chilled in the river earlier. Duncan accepted the cup and settled on the furs. Casually he watched as Methos moved around the tent, straightening things, folding clothes and tidying up the tent.

 

Risking a glance over his shoulder Methos noticed that Duncan had laid back, eyes slipping close. Carefully he finished searching the tent for the stone, then frowned in disgust. It wasn’t here, which meant he would have to search the rest of the camp, but that would also require that he go into the other Horsemen’s tents. Well, he had to gather the now dried clothing he had washed that morning, and he would bring a tray of food back for Duncan’s mid-day meal.

 

Casually picking his way through the camp Methos paused at the tent placed just across the short gravel path to the river, Silas’ tent. Taking a deep breath he pushed the tent flap aside, “Lord Silas?” he said. A rumbling voice from inside the tent made him start. The giant rose from his bed, motioning the new slave inside.

 

“You require my help again, little one?” Silas said smiling. Carefully he pulled Methos close, stroking his huge paw over the fine skin on the slave’s arm, “Or did my Brother send you here to entertain me this afternoon?”

 

Methos flinched at the epitaph that the big man had dubbed him with. But smiling as engagingly as possible he said, “I noticed that you are without a household slave, I came to offer my services if you require some cleaning?”

 

“Cleaning no, it is sufficiently clean in here, but you can do me some other service,” Silas nodded loosening the drawstrings on his trousers and pulling them down to his knees. He pulled Methos forward by one arm and the smaller man winced. Methos was finally getting a good, clear memory of his and Duncan’s original timeline, and he was sure that he and Silas had never slept together. In fact, he and Silas had had more of a truly brotherly relationship than he and the other Horsemen although Methos could barely stomach Caspian on a good day, so Methos had never even gotten a good long look at Silas’ “equipment,” like now.

 

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Methos thought his thighs clenching involuntarily, “ _No wonder his women always walked funny.”_

 

Frowning Silas made an impatiently gesture with one hand, “Well, what’s taking so long?’

 

“A truly daunting task, my Lord Silas,” Methos stammered then he cringed, afraid that the big man would take offense. But Silas merely laughed, the booming sound rolling over the smaller man, and again Methos felt the deep abiding ache in his heart at the idea that one day he would kill this man.

 

“You always could make me laugh,” Silas said wiping at his streaming eyes. Sitting up he tugged his breeches up, “Now why would I say that? You’ve only been here a short time. Maybe it’s like Caspian says, I am crazy.”

 

“Oh, Caspian is a prick,” Methos said dryly then clamped his hand over his mouth barely able to breathe. Again Silas laughed not seeming unduly concerned at the slave’s audacity.

 

“Yes, a prick, but a prick with teeth and claws, and sharp, sharp knives. So you stay well clear of that one. You want to clean, aye? Well, go on.” he motioned again settling back on the furs, catching up a wineskin in one hand, letting the sparkling red liquid fall into his mouth.  He casually watched as Methos hurried around the tent, folding clothes and picking up dirty dishes. One of the slave women appeared with a tray of food, and Silas motioned for her to place the tray on a low table, and then dragged her into the bed to perform the service that Methos had neglected to perform earlier.

 

Keeping his attention off the sounds on the furs and on the task at hand, Methos carefully “cleaned” every inch of the tent.  Finally, he skirted the bed searching the far corner of the tent, Silas let out a bellow and collapsed on the writhing body beneath him. With a contented sigh the big Horseman let the whimpering slave clamber out of the tent.

 

Picking up the tray he began bolting down the food motioning Methos to pour him wine. Quickly Methos gathered up the wine jar and cup pouring the wine, and delivering the cup to the Horseman. With a final look at the bed Methos decided that the furs did not conceal anything, grateful that he wouldn’t actually have to lie down in the bed to find out. With a dejected look Methos conceded that the stone was not in among Silas’ possessions. “Did you have further need of me, my Lord Silas?”

 

“No, go to your master, little one.”

 

Quickly Methos scurried to the cooking tents, gathering a large slab of crumbling yellow cheese, some fresh baked bread, and a large bowl of dates and raisins drenched in honey.

 

Carrying the tray back to the tent he ducked inside just as Duncan rolled over yawning widely. Carefully Methos settled the tray on the table, moving to pour a cup of wine, mixing it with a little water to cut the flavor. He piled Duncan’s meal on the wooden platter and carried it to the bed. Duncan actually smiled, “Methos,” he murmured still dazed with sleep. Methos smiled back as a warm feeling spread through his body.

 

 “I brought you some food.” he said quietly.

 

“You always did take good care of me...didn’t you?” Duncan sighed, and Methos felt his breath catch maybe Duncan remembered. The other man rose from the bed and Methos placed the tray on his lap. Suddenly Duncan flinched as another image assailed him; one of Methos sprawled on a sofa while Duncan handed him a cup, “ _Sugar?_ ” he said batting his eyelashes as Methos tipped the cup of steaming liquid, giving him as ‘Yes, Honey’ look. Growling as the ringing in his head grew intense enough that pain flooded his senses Duncan clenched his fists in the furs. The tray almost fell off Duncan’s lap, but Methos clutched it keeping it safe until Duncan had control again. Snarling the Horseman jerked away from the slave, “Eat...” he snapped.

 

Settling in the floor at Duncan’s feet Methos pulled the tray over, picking at the contents, although his appetite seemed to have died. When the meal was finished Methos was sent to the kitchen tents with the dishes. Once they had been delivered he made his way through the bustle of the camp, slaves preparing for the evening meal already although it was barely past noon. Far ahead he could see the slaves carrying buckets of oats to the stable tent for the horse. Duncan’s big white stallion kicked out at the slave handling the buckets and the man cursed sharply striking the horse across the rump with the ladle.

 

Methos froze wide-eyed. Duncan was just coming out of the tent as the ladle fell across the horse’s rear, and the animal snapped in anger. With a shouted curse Duncan ran through the camp. His angry voice roused the other Horsemen, and Methos felt his knees go weak. He well remembered how he would have dealt with the slave foolish enough to touch Azreal.

 

“Oh, God no,” Methos hissed under his breath. Whatever Duncan did here in this time today he would live with tomorrow, even if they did not make it back to their own time through the doorway. Methos had lived three thousand years after he left the Horsemen and he had lived with the memories each and every day of those three thousand years. He was certain that he and Duncan would be restored to their proper time and place, and if Duncan did something terrible he might not be able to live with it.

 

Heart thumping painfully in his chest Methos raced after Duncan and the others. He could see Kronos just entering the tent with Duncan following close behind. The slave had realized his mistake too late to halt his actions, and now stood trembling and fearful in the face of his masters.

 

Duncan grasped the man’s hair jerking him forward, forcing the man to his knees. “You dare to strike my horse? That animal is worth more than you; more than a hundred like you,” he raised a fist and sent the man sprawling.

 

A leather whip was coiled around a spike jutting from one of the tent posts. Duncan snatched it up uncoiling the length with the flick of one hard-muscled arm. The leather snaked out, hitting the slave across the face opening a wide gash in the skin. He cried out clasping a hand over the wound. Without making a sound the man tried to lever himself up off the ground, but the whip snaked out again, whistling through the air. The full force of the lash caught the man’s back parting his tunic, bloodying his back, even as the whip recoiled, and struck again.

 

Methos winced, the lashes were falling fast, and Duncan was putting his whole arm and back into the strikes. Already the slave was moaning, skin and muscle ripped way with each blow. The man wouldn’t last too much longer at this rate. Methos winced; he couldn’t let Duncan kill the slave knowing that someday he’d remember this, not wanting that guilt and anguish to fall on the Highlander.

 

“Please, my Lord Duncan,” he whispered, “”Please, you’re killing him...”

 

Duncan paused only long enough to shove Methos away. Taking a deep breath Methos rose to his knees, then scrambled over to the other man, “Please, my Lord Duncan. You will regret doing this one day.”

 

“Regret? Are you a fool, boy?” Duncan snarled as the whip snaked out again, but he twisted his wrist and the lash fell across the slave’s throat, cutting it. Bright gouts of blood erupted into the dusty sand, and the slave was still. Furiously Duncan whirled on Methos tossing the whip to the ground, as Kronos glanced shrewdly at the young slave. Methos sensed the mistake he had made at once. Duncan only seemed to tune into their true timeline when some event here triggered a memory. Methos had made a mistake of seeing this man as his Highlander, not the Horseman Death. A mistake he was certain he was about to pay for.

 

The first blow split his lip and sent him reeling. The second opened a gash on his cheek, but the warm trickle of blood had barely begun before the gash healed. Enraged Duncan punched him twice more in the face knocking a tooth lose and blacking his eye. Methos scrambled backwards over the rough, uneven ground while pressing his tongue against the loose tooth until he felt it re-seat itself. Duncan followed along after him, landing a good solid kick into Methos’ ribs rolling him over on the ground, and then he followed that kick with several others. Duncan kept kicking Methos until he had moved him the length of the camp between the stable and Duncan’s tent.

 

As the tent flap parted Methos was shoved face first onto the pile of bedding. The trousers he wore parted under the blade of the knife that Duncan wore sheathed at the hip.

And the rustling of fabric caught his attention before Duncan worked his hands under Methos’ hips tossing him across the furs.  The long, hard body slammed itself down on Methos’ back, and Duncan’s cock was at his entrance before Methos could even breathe again.

 

White hot pain flared up his spine, igniting his muscles into furious action, but he was well and truly caught. It took Duncan five hard strokes before he erupted inside the smaller man, and he pulled out leaving Methos feeling raw in a way very few other such assaults of the same nature ever had. Sobbing quietly Methos rocked on the bed, not looking up as the other man adjusted his clothes. Duncan turned at the opening of the tent, “Don’t ever forget your place around here again. I’ll have your head.”

 

That night at the fire the slaves were quiet and tense. Duncan had been drinking heavily all afternoon, a dark scowl on his face. Methos served him quietly with an air of dejected resignation. He didn’t look up as he offered Duncan the various trays of food. Nor did he eat anything, but the occasional bites that Duncan forced on him from his own tray. A bright flare of anger caught up inside him, and Methos knew that if he and Duncan were going to come out of this less damaged than they already were he would have to find that stone before too long.

 

Duncan staggered to his tent as the last embers of the fire were dying down, and the faint light of early morning was touching the sky. He herded Methos into bed, and pressed a few sloppy, drunken kisses on him before forcing him over onto his back, legs spread. Methos endured the forced intimacy again, although Duncan was less brutal and made an effort at pleasuring him, relaxing as Methos’ body responded automatically. Then as Duncan settled into sleep Methos lay still, weeping quietly until, exhausted, he too fell into an uneasy slumber.

 

Moaning Duncan rolled over, thrashing quietly. The heat had faded from the desert sand leaving the tent cold; even so sweat sprang up on the Horseman’s body. He rolled over seeking the warmth of the other body inhabiting his bed. As Duncan moved closer he caught the scent of his bed partner, “Methos,” he whispered. The other man rolled over cautiously, but realized that Duncan was still sleeping.

 

Dreams swept Duncan away from the tent, the slaves and the horses under the hot desert skies, bringing him to cold, dreary looking place that stank of harsh smelling fumes sometimes. The dark, dank bridge that he remembered earlier and Methos standing in the deepening twilight, “I’ll have your head....” Duncan’s voice echoing through the tent, slowly transmuted to Methos’ plaintive cry, “Why Highlander, I would have taken your head...and Duncan’s voice rumbling in reply, “No, you wouldn’t have. You would have made a mistake at the end and let me take your head...”

 

Rolling over Duncan clutched at the slim, wiry body, “Oh, Methos, I’m so sorry...” The dream images rose up again, and he gasped as the cold air hit his face. Methos dressed in an oversized black coat, standing before a gray grave marker then walking in the snow, Duncan at his side, “The Sioux have a saying.  A spirit is never truly gone as long as someone remembers.” 

 

In his sleep Duncan moved restlessly. Slowly bringing his lips to the long, elegant column of Methos’ throat Duncan tasted the warm, hard flesh again, “Oh, Methos, I am so sorry...”

 

“It’s alright Duncan,” Methos whispered in the darkness holding the other man to him, grateful that his Duncan was still in there somewhere. But the hard body twisted in his grasp, pulling away, tangled in the blankets and furs. A frown twisted the Highlanders features, and Methos felt his heart break again.

 

“Quiet,” Duncan hissed his whole demeanor changing at once. Methos stilled and fell silent, as tears slipped from beneath his lashes and trickled down the side of this face.

 

Camp life was relatively uneventful; unless a raid went wrong then it became a horrendous nightmare for any slave unlucky enough to fall under one of the Horsemen’s scrutiny. Methos remained relatively unscathed since Duncan hadn’t been of a mind to share his prize with one of his Brothers and Kronos was busying himself with the multitude of young girls captured on a small raid on a slave caravan coming out of the city.

 

Methos’ days were filled with the unvarying tasks of serving his master. Clothes washed, mended and folded away, bringing water and wine, or food to the tent and, of course, the more intimate tasks that Duncan required. And Duncan seemed to require those services far more than Methos ever remembered requiring them from any slave, Cassandra included. And occasionally Duncan added a few variations to the nightly performances. Methos was beginning to dread nightfall wondering what little perversion might await in the tent.

 

The day dawned bright and warm, the sun heating the sand much more than the previous days. Methos was once again in the river washing clothes, but he didn’t mind it as much today, the water was soothing and somewhat of a relief from the intense burning sun. Wringing the last garment out he hung them carefully, and then carried the basket back to the tent. He had searched every spot that he could think of for the Chronos Stone, and come up empty handed. He wandered back to the river in dejected silence.

 

The senior woman slave waded out of the river carrying a basket of Silas’ clothing smiling in his direction, “Methos,” she said, “Come help me make bread.”

 

“I’m not very good at it Yadira,” he replied sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, but she scowled and he yielded.

 

“You don’t have to be good at it; I just need a strong back to mix the dough.” She laughed until she caught sight of the Pale Rider coming for his slave. With a rueful look she headed for the kitchen tent. Methos paused then hurried toward the other man. Duncan smiled raising his hand and stoking Methos’ cheek. “Come walk with me,” he said, and Methos felt his heart jump a little. Duncan sounded so normal, so like himself that he wondered if the other man had not remembered who he really was.

 

Methos knew that Duncan had flashes of memory just as Methos himself had, perhaps Methos had remembered because, unlike the other man, he had actually lived this life once before. But he knew that Duncan remembered when he dreamed; Duncan had spoken to him in French one night, perfect modern French. But the commands coming out of Duncan’s mouth had been so very Horseman-like that Methos shuddered and buried his dawning hope deep. Still Methos knew that there was some way to open the doorway; some task that he and Duncan could perform together here in this time period to get back to their own time.

 

Quickly walking after the Horseman Methos crested the dune of sand that led to the path to the river. Most of the women had completed their washing and only Silas and Kronos were lounging at the water’s edge. Kronos flicked a lazy hand at his Brother in greeting as Duncan stripped his clothing off. Turning he waited until Methos had stripped as well before wading into the shallow, sluggishly churning water. Duncan raised a hand motioning Methos into the water and Methos went to him, grateful for the cooling relief from the harsh afternoon heat.

 

Duncan wrapped his arms around the other immortal’s slender waist, raking his ribs unmercifully. Laughter bubbled up from Methos’ belly spilling out, and Duncan grinned. Pulling Methos close he let his lips drift over Methos’ mouth, and cheek coming to rest on the curve of his jaw. Methos closed his eyes.  How many days had he wished for this, the taste of Duncan on his lips, the feel of that hard body pressed tightly against him? If not for the horror of the Horsemen’s camp Methos would have gladly sacrificed the comforts of the modern world to be with Duncan this way.

 

Suddenly Methos was startled out of his reverie as Duncan’s blunt fingers wrapped around Methos’ balls, then stroked along the length of his shaft. Squirming Methos tried to dislodge the hand, Duncan growled jerking his arm painfully hard. Methos flinched.

 

“What’s wrong with you, boy?” he hissed at the other man, and Methos flushed glancing at the other men wallowing in the slightly deeper water. “You’ll perform for them if I wish it, slave.”

 

“Please, my Lord Duncan,” Methos whimpered, “Please not this, not now.”

 

Kronos leaned forward a shrewd look on his saturnine features, “You let this slave boy dictate to you, Brother?”

 

Frowning Duncan waded forward twisting his fist into Methos’ hair, jerking his head forward and down, pushing Methos until he was kneeling in the water.

Shivering as the cool liquid lapped at his chest Methos glanced up at the other Immortal, Duncan thrust this hips forward until his half-erect cock brushed Methos’ cheek, “You know what to do, and when you’re done you can do the same for my Brothers.”

 

The shudders that racked Methos’ body had little to do with the coolness of the water, and more to do with the abject humiliation he felt. When he had finished with Duncan he had gone to Silas first, even though his jaw had been aching and his lips bruised. Duncan had grasped his shoulders forcing his head down toward the huge shaft. Silas glanced down noticing the young slave’s horrified expression. Quickly he pushed Methos and Duncan away crying out, “No”. Duncan had sunk under the water with a splash and come up angry. He had, of course, blamed Methos and beaten him until he was almost unconscious.

 

Now Methos huddled in the shadows of the date trees watching Duncan and the big Horseman argue; Silas defending the helpless slave, and venting his anger on his Brother.

All the while Methos shook involuntarily, while memories of Bordeaux flashed in his mind, memories of the backhanded stroke that parted the giant’s head from his body.

 

Resentment burned hotly in the ancient Immortal’s mind. Sometime in the future, God only knew how far, Methos would kill the man defending him for Duncan MacLeod’s sake, yet Duncan had raped and abused him. With a sigh Methos closed his eyes, it wasn’t Duncan’s fault. The witch had done this to them both, made Duncan something he would have loathed and despised in his right mind, made Methos suffer as she had suffered. Methos wasn’t sure who he hated more Duncan the Horseman, or himself.

 

Finally, the argument seemed to be winding down, Duncan’s scowling face turned toward Methos and he motioned toward the camp.” Go to the tent,” he hissed. Methos needed no encouragement. Quickly he hurried to the tent past the cook fires, and the other slaves who had resolutely kept their attention on their daily tasks. Not one of them spared a second glance at him and Methos was grateful for that small mercy.

 

Later as he huddled by the fire listlessly eating the bites of food Duncan hand fed him Methos drew on the last vestiges of the inner strength that had kept him alive for 5000 years in the original timeline.  Tomorrow the Horsemen were going out to raid the caravan coming down from the south. And Methos planned on spending as much time as necessary searching every inch of the camp for the Chronos Stone. If he didn’t get them out of here, he would lose what little love remained for the Highlander.

 

As the lamp light was extinguished Duncan rolled over pulling the slighter man close to him. Ignoring the muffled grunt of protest the slave made he settled in for a good night’s sleep. As his body went lax, a vision of the events at the water hole this afternoon rose to his mind, and Duncan winced. Methos’ frightened hazel eyes gazing up at him from the water transmuted to the frightened gaze of the man laying fully clothed on the dark wood floor of a church, “Maybe I like who I am...” he said smiling, his voice a dark, sibilant whisper.

 

Tossing and turning he clutched at the slim body like it was a life line. Another image rose of Duncan dripping wet in a warm underground pool, Methos standing above him smiling, hand out stretched. “You have always been too important to lose, Highlander...”

 

The water of the pool whirled and transformed into the swimming hole, then Duncan holding Methos while the men he called Brothers performed the same unspeakable act on the unwilling slave. “No,” Duncan hissed as Kronos laughed leering at his Brother over the dark head bent low. “No!” Duncan screamed jerking awake. He scrambled to the side of the bed as Methos rolled over rising to his hand and knees, crawling over the furs.

 

Shaking visibly Duncan held up a hand, “No, you don’t have to crawl for any man.”

 

Confused Methos sat back on his heels, “My Lord Duncan?”

 

“Nothing, just a dream...” Duncan said sighing. He glanced at the other man from under lowered eyelashes, “You shouldn’t have to crawl for any man you’re....Never mind go back to sleep I’m going for a walk.”

 

The night air was cool and faintly scented of night blooming Jasmine and honey. Scents that had seemed so homey now seemed foreign and odd. Stumbling under the almost starless sky Duncan made his way to the stable tent to stand behind the calm, silent horse. Kronos had freed the big, white stallion, and the horse had mounted the mare easing his tension. Duncan patted the silky flank and Azreal nicked softly at his master’s touch.

 

If he strained his memory the Horseman could recall other horses he had ridden, although he could never remember riding a pale horse before...before what? Closing his eyes he leaned against the horse’s side whispering in another language. The horse snorted quietly, not caring at all what his master said or what language he said it in. There had been other horses ridden, other armor worn, other clothes -- not these white woolen garments, but wool nonetheless, blue and green.

 

A sound brought Duncan out of his fugue state, a girl emerged from Silas’ tent, swathed in green cloth, a spill of auburn curls falling over one shoulder, and the Horseman flinched, “Debra?” he called out over the ringing in his ears.

 

Startled the girl jerked to a halt, eyes wide with fear. Duncan strode to her side, turning her face to the pale blue moonlight. The eyes staring up at him were almond shaped, dark brown and washed with unshed tears, the girl’s round, dark-skinned face nothing like...who? With a quick gesture he motioned the girl on and she scurried to the bushes to relieve herself before returning to her master’s bed.

 

Growling with unease Duncan finally succumbed to the need to return to his tent, to his bed. But it was not sleep that he sought. Methos had left a single lamp burning casting a pale glow to the tent’s interior, turning the everyday things that filled Duncan’s life to strange amorphous shadows, monsters peeking out of the corners. He shuddered.

 

In the bed, the Horseman could just make out the vague man-shaped bindle that was his slave, only the tangle of dark, brown hair emerged from the blankets. With a smile Duncan found himself submerged in memories yet again. A very clear and persistent memory of a blanket wrapped bundle huddled on the sofa of his...loft...barge, wherever, with spikes of dark brown hair emerging just the same.

 

Quickly Duncan strode to the furs settling beside the long, lean body.  With a sigh he pulled the other man close, stroking his hands down the firm muscled back. Methos came awake with a start; sleepily he rolled over squinting in the dim light at his master’s face.

 

“You require something, my Lord Duncan?” he asked in a dry confused whisper. With a smile Duncan leaned down kissing the other man until he stirred, rolling over so that their bodies fit snugly together.

 

“Yes, you.”

 

Shifting Methos sighed, “And you have me, my Lord Duncan, always.”

 

Stroking his fingertips over the lean cheek Duncan frowned, “But I can remember a time when I did not have you. I can remember wanting, but not having.  How can this be?”

 

Methos suddenly stilled wondering how much he should tell the other man. How much would Duncan accept as the truth? The fact that they came from another time period far in the future, the fact that Duncan MacLeod was not the Horseman Death that his lowly “young” slave was the oldest Immortal living and that he, Methos, had been Death on a Horse? He started to speak, but Duncan’s tongue was somehow in his mouth, and the big, blunt-fingered hands were all over him, doing things to make Methos hot and horny. Finally, he just clutched at the broad, strong shoulders as Duncan settled over him, sinking into the tight heat of Methos’ willing body, and all of Methos’ thoughts were swept away.

 

Methos rolled over and flinched as the bright morning sunlight stabbed mercilessly at his eyes. He stretched feeling the slow, languid pull of muscle over bone, and smiled. Every nerve ending in his body was singing and Methos lay back enjoying the flow of energy permeating from his body. Duncan was remembering, last night he had come back into the tent and made love to Methos for hours. Not taken, not forced but slow, sweet lovemaking.

 

Suddenly Methos sat up. The hum of Immortal presence was oddly lacking inside the tent, and out. Methos had a far longer range than most Immortals, and most of the time he could sense, not only, Duncan but the other Horsemen as well. There was no trace of Immortal buzz anywhere in close range, which meant the entire camp was free of the others.

 

“Oh, hell!” Methos swore to himself. The caravan from the south, that Caspian and Silas had been tracking all week, was probably in range for a raid; which meant that Duncan and the others were gone. He had hoped that they would be gone back to their own time period before Duncan actually had to participate in a large scale raid. Beheading was popular with mortal and Immortal alike in this time period, and an Immortal might lose his head in battle to mortal enemies.

 

Quickly throwing off the blankets Methos rose, pouring water from the now tepid cauldron he bathed and dressed. Carefully he straightened the bedding and the gathered dirty clothing dumping it into the wicker basket, which was almost full. With a grimace he decided that today was wash day, and winced at the twinge in his lower back that thought produced. If he ever got back to the twentieth century he was never going to bitch about doing laundry again.

 

The slave women working the cook tent raked him with teasing glances as Yadira handed him a bowl of thick porridge, liberally covered in butter and slabs of soft yellow cheese.

 

She grinned and Methos flushed. With a smirk she hissed, “So the Master was frisky last night?”

 

The other kitchen slaves giggled and Methos felt the blush that had stained his cheeks travel all the way down to the collar of his tunic. Good naturedly he grinned in return, “Yeah, jealous because you aren’t getting any?”

 

“Not from that one, he’s as big as a horse...I’ve seen him at the river.” Yadira added cognizant of Methos’ dark glare.

 

Suddenly he brightened, leering and said, “Yeah, big as a horse, hard as iron and he can go all night long.”

 

“He doesn’t seem so bad, now Caspian...” the young auburn haired girl washing dishes piped up shuddering. All the women nodded, but she continued on “And Silas, ouch...”

 

Methos had to nod at that one, but a small dark haired girl chirped, “I’ve been with Silas and it was good, I could do them all no problem...”

 

The auburn haired girl puffed out her chest adding snippily, “Only because you can spread your legs higher and wider than any other woman in the camp.”

 

“Ladies, ladies...” Methos said stepping between the two, but Yadira pulled him back shaking her head. “ _Well, perhaps she’s right_ ,” Methos thought, he made it a point to never get between two angry women; particularly when there were sharp pointed objects within easy reach. With a shake of his head he deposited his dirty dishes in the wash tub and walked back to Duncan’s tent to gather the laundry, then headed to the swimming hole to wash. After he had hung the garments he walked through the camp, and back toward Duncan’s tent.

 

With a hasty glace over his shoulder he detoured to Kronos’ tent instead. Now that the Horsemen were out of camp he could search the two remaining tents for the Chronos Stone. Ducking under the low hanging hide covering the entrance he scanned the personal possessions of the First Horseman. Grimacing he went over the to the bed, a shudder ran through his long frame at the memories invoked by looking at the neatly kept furs, memories of nights spent in Kronos’ thrall, of the pleasure and pain he had inflicted on Methos. At least Duncan had seemed to have avoided that part of Methos’ life with the Horsemen, and he wondered at what it said about Duncan’s strength of character, or his own lack of it.

 

Sighing he began searching the well kept tent, Kronos was almost pathologically clean for the era they lived in, and his belongings were maintained with the same fanatic order. It was short work to search the entire tent, and Methos frowned at his failure to find the stone. That left only Caspian’s tent.

 

The other slaves were well into their own work, and he passed through them almost unnoticed. The few glances he received were only passing, and reflected the same equanimity that all slaves reserved for their own kind. Caspian’s tent was on the far side of the camp, set back into the curve of a small hillside, and shadowed even in the mid-morning sun. The smell issuing from the tent was horrific, and Methos felt his stomach lurched. Wishing now that he had not eaten he took a deep breath and ducked inside.

 

The sand floor of the tent was stained with blood, although it had dried to an even rust colored splotch. Amidst the jumble of clothes, armor and weapons, were the various trophies that the Horseman Famine collected from his victims. A thin rope was stretched from one side of the tent to the other, and hanging from it were skulls of various sizes, including some of infants Methos was certain. On the bedside table was a fresher trophy still bloody, and reeking, covered with flies. His stomach lurched again.

 

Quickly Methos struggled through searching the tent, and just as he was about to give up he spotted a small wooden chest tucked into the corner behind a pile of dirty clothes. Crawling across the floor on his hands and knees Methos tugged the chest out, lifting the lid. Inside was a leather pouch. With trembling fingers Methos opened the drawstring; a huge blue-white crystal tumbled out into his palm. Closing his eyes Methos uttered a brief prayer of thanks he had long thought he had forgotten then quickly tucked the stone into it pouch and closed the lid on the chest. He pushed the chest back into the corner then hid the pouch in his clothes.

 

The sounds of slaves scurrying around the camp caught Methos’ attention and he hissed. The Horsemen had returned. Quietly he crept to the doorway of the tent glancing out.

 

The stable workers were just taking the horses from their riders, if he hurried Methos could just get out of the tent before Caspian headed this way.

 

Slipping out the door Methos hugged the side of the tent until he could slip into the shadows. He skirted the stream down around a curve until he came to the swimming hole, and quickly began gathering the dried clothing he had washed earlier that morning. Carefully Methos folded one dried tunic around the pouch securing the Chronos Stone for later when he and Duncan could open the doorway together.  Methos was familiar enough with the Necromancer’s Law that he knew that he and Duncan still had some unspecified task to perform to get the door opened, and for that Duncan needed to remember who he was since Cassandra had performed the spell in their real timeline.

 

As he folded the last of the garments he felt a hand fall on his shoulder and Methos winced. Duncan was standing behind him, drenched in blood, and the charnel-house smell of him revolted and excited Methos at the same time. The flash of excitement in Duncan’s eyes also sent a fission of hot energy coursing from Methos’ head to the soles of his feet.

 

With a muffled whimper his lips parted for Duncan’s questing tongue. Kronos stood at the river’s edge stripping his armor and clothing off, “Come Brother...wash, there will be plenty of time for your slave boy later.”

 

Carefully Methos helped Duncan strip off his armor and clothes, and then carried them back to the tent. He came back a short while later to find the Horsemen settled in the warm spring water drinking wine poured out by some of the salve women.  Working quickly he washed the clothes that Duncan had been wearing and hung them to dry, leaving fresh garments on a low flat rock in the shade.

 

Once Duncan was cooled and clean he waded toward the shore, smiling up as Methos leaned forward offering a hand. Suddenly bright pain blossomed in his mind, and the image of a dark underground cavern flowed around him, of Methos dressed in dark clothes, a long coat, steam rising before his face with every breath filled his mind.

 

Duncan gasped, staring at the sword that Methos clutched in his hand. A long, intricately carved pommel of golden hued metal protruded from the other end of the pale fist, the sword, a Claymore...the sword of the MacLeods. Another clearer, brighter image rose in Duncan’s mind. A young man, a boy really, of thirteen stood looking up at a man who seemed impossibly tall, at times, a grim faced giant, a man with a broad face and golden skin…

 

_“Do you know what this is, Donnechaid?” he asked holding up the sword. Duncan smiled anxious to pass this rite into manhood. His eyes narrowed in concentration._

_“A Claymore, father?”_

_“Aye, but even more, the Sword of the Clan MacLeod, this is what I see before me.”_

_Duncan flushed because his father was not looking at the sword in his hand, and the man continued, “The Sword of the MacLeods, defender and paladin, do you understand?”_

_“Aye father, I do.”_

 

“The sword of the MacLeods,” Duncan muttered and the pain blossomed brightly but he held out against it and it faded away leaving him shaken. Methos leaned forward fear coloring his features.

 

 “Duncan,” he hissed, and the other man turned on him. Quickly Methos lowered his eyes, “My Lord Duncan, do you require any thing?”

 

“Yes, come with me.” Duncan waded out of the water grabbing the clothing the other man held out with trembling hands. Dragging the tunic and leggings on Duncan barely paused until they reached the tent. He ducked inside waiting until Methos was also inside.

 

Duncan settled on the furs, and Methos quickly gathered a cup for wine pouring some from the clay jug on the table. He scurried over to the other man, and Duncan accepted the cup. “What’s going on, Methos?  How did we get here?  My God...how can you even stand to be near me after what I did to you?”

 

“It’s alright. It isn’t your fault. Somehow Cassandra sent us back in time; we ended up in her revisionist history. You are what you hated, basically me, and me in her place.”

 

“I never hated you, Methos. I just didn’t understand. I guess I know what they mean about walking a mile in another man’s shoes.”

 

“She made you a Horseman, Duncan. You’d have never done this on your own.”

 

“Oh no, I knew what was right. I remembered enough to know that I had been taught otherwise, I just chose to ignore that little voice inside. I chose to do everything of my own free will. I can only hope that you can forgive me...”

 

“There is nothing to forgive, Duncan. I understand...What we need is to figure out what we have to do to get...and I _really_ hate saying this...back to the future.”

 

Duncan nodded studying the other man, “Can we do that? I mean how did she get us here anyway?” He watched as Methos scurried over to the neatly folded laundry on the table. The long, elegant fingers worked through the pile of fabric and produced the leather pouch. He held out the stone to the other man. Duncan took it turning it over in his hands.

“What is it?”

 

“It’s called the Chronos Stone; it is a doorway to time. Once the spell is cast the doorway opens both to the past and to the time period the spell was cast. All we have to do is perform whatever task she set for us, and the doorway opens. And we go through, back where we truly belong. But we have to be very careful, if we change the timeline here, we may not go back to the future we came from. And once we are in the future we won’t know it’s not the original timeline. Things have to play out as they did before.”

 

“I don’t get it.”

 

“Look I was the Horseman in our original timeline, and you haven’t even been born yet. If you do something that changes the timeline now I won’t have ever been a Horseman and Cassandra won’t have been my slave, she might not even have been made Immortal.

 

You were never a Horseman, if you change something here now, you will have to live with this as your past in the new timeline. I don’t want that for you, Duncan. I love you too much.”

 

Suddenly Methos flinched as the tent flap was forcefully raised and Kronos dressed in his long tunic and leggings swaggered in, “Well, Brother, how touching. You know you’ve made a real prize of him, considering what he was in the beginning.”

 

Shifting so that he could rise and meet his Brother face to face Duncan shrugged casually, “He’s no different than any other slave...”

 

Kronos shrugged as well, grinning, “And yet you seem to prefer him to all others. Well, now it’s time to share the wealth, remember Duncan, we share everything.” He strode forward seizing Methos by the arm, squeezing until Methos cried out. Duncan moved forward, but Methos shook his head, a clear warning in his eyes.

 

Duncan paused picking up a piece of fruit from the tray on the table. So this was what Cassandra was making them pay for, not her servitude, but Methos’ indifference. And now Duncan must be indifferent to Methos being raped by Kronos. But Duncan MacLeod would never stand by and let a helpless slave be raped, “ _defender and paladin”_ , his father’s voice washed over him. Damn it all. Seizing his sword from the table beside the bed Duncan stalked out of the tent, “Kronos!” he roared. “Get your God damned hands off of him...”

 

Methos froze as Kronos pulled his sword from the pile of armor laying beside the tent doorway, “You challenge me Brother, for the slave?”

 

Stalking forward Duncan smiled as his sword flashed in the late afternoon sun. Kronos parried the stroke shoving Methos to the ground stepping over his prone body. Methos rolled out of the way scrambling to his knees, “No! Duncan, don’t do it, you can’t change the timeline...”

 

“The hell with the timeline, I won’t let this bastard rape you.”

 

Kronos blocked the forward swing of the other man’s sword and followed up with a vicious strike of his own. Duncan parried it easily, his arm cutting up and under, sinking the sword into Kronos’ side. The First Horseman staggered, eyes widening. “Silas, Caspian,” he cried out.

 

Methos launched himself from the ground, “We have to get out of here. Please Duncan don’t do this...”

 

“I won’t let them hurt you, Methos. I love you.”

 

A sudden blinding light issued from Duncan’s tent. Kronos’ eyes widened in fear, and Methos turned gaping, “The doorway is opened, Duncan. We can go.”

 

Quickly he hurried toward the tent, turning to be sure the other man followed. Duncan aimed another blow at Kronos and the First Horseman jumped back, swinging not at his opponent, but at the slave. Fear seized Duncan, seeing the sword blade aimed at that slender, pale throat and he jumped forward catching Kronos’ blade turning it aide.  Methos gasped as suddenly Duncan brought his sword up cutting across at Kronos who barely jumped back in time. A smile crossed the scarred face until Duncan reversed his swing at the last possible minute, and Kronos head’s fell.

 

“Oh my God, Duncan, what have you done?”

 

“Whatever it is, it is.” Duncan said and he shoved Methos into the light.

 

**Paris, France**

**1996**

The phone rang and the Immortal picked up the receiver, he smiled recognizing the voice on the other end as belonging to Joe Dawson. Leaning back he sprawled on the sofa, beer bottle dangling loosely from his long, elegant fingers.  “Joe, it’s good to hear from you. What’s up?”

 

The Watcher cleared throat, “I need your help,” he began without preamble.

 

A smile crossed the Immortal’s face although he knew his mortal friend, and Watcher, couldn’t see it. “What wrong, Joe?”

 

“An Immortal named Kalas is looking for Methos...”

 

“Methos -- the oldest Immortal, that’s just a legend, Joe.”

 

“Yeah, well you know that and I know that, but apparently Kalas doesn’t think so. He killed our head Methos Chronicler, Don Salzar. They found him dead this morning at the book store the Watchers own in Paris and a good friend of mine might be next.”

 

“Why would this friend of yours be next?”

 

“He has this thing for researching Methos. He’s a real fanatic about it. Nobody knows why, but he is the second most authority on the ancient Immortal alive. Well first, now that Don is dead. Anyway I was hoping that you might go look in on him for me, you know just keeps tabs on him. Maybe let him now that Kalas might be coming after him.”

 

“Sure, what’s his address? I’ll do what I can.”

 

“Hey, thanks man, I knew I could count on you, the Immortal Boy Scout always looking out for the little guy.”

 

Smiling the man replied, “Don’t push your luck, Dawson, besides they didn’t have boy scouts when I was a kid.”

 

“Or planes, trains and automobiles, but you’ve managed with those.”

 

Glancing down at the slip of paper in his hand, the man hung up the phone and picked up his coat. With a deep sigh he bundled himself into the heavy black coat and headed out into the cold Paris night. Rain was just beginning to fall, and he cursed himself for agreeing to this little rescue mission.

 

Fortunately the address Dawson had given him wasn’t very far from his place, and he pulled his car into a parking space across the street. Glancing around he didn’t see anyone else out in the streets and he hurried over to the dimly lit doorway.

 

Suddenly the deep thrum of Immortal presence hit, and he jerked to a halt. _Damn it all, Kalas was already here._ Throwing caution to the wind he barged through the door, and almost tumbled down the short flight of stairs leading down into the softly lit room.

 

The room was large, the living area at one end and a large low, bed covered in a deep green duvet was nestled against the far wall. Across the wooden floor he could make out the form of a man sitting on the rug beside the bed.  He was big, broad shoulder and wearing dark colored trousers and a gray sweater.

 

Extremely loud music, some opera, poured out of the stereo speakers setting his teeth on edge, and he glared at the still form who had as yet failed to respond to his presence. Suddenly his quarry sensed him; dropping the book he was reading and glancing up. A bright warm smile crossed his face and he motioned to the man on the stairs, his warm brown eyes wide and inviting, “Methos?”

 

Methos gasped as a slow tingle crawled along the length of his spine, “Duncan MacLeod?” he whispered moving slowly down the stairs. “How did you know who I was?”

 

“I remember seeing your chronicle and it just seemed as if I had known you before. I can’t explain it; sometimes I get flashes, thoughts or memories, of you and me, of another place or time when we knew each other.”

 

“I don’t believe in precognition, Duncan. And yet when I came here tonight, when I saw you there on the floor, I almost sensed it myself. I could almost believe that I had known you in another life, if we weren’t immortals.”

 

 “I’ve been looking for you all my life.” Duncan hissed moving toward the slightly smaller man, “I felt that one day I would find you.” As he moved closer to the other man Duncan smiled, letting his hands drift down, coming to rest on the slim waist, pulling the other man forward. Methos closed his eyes tipping his head back, inviting the other man to lower his head to the long, pale throat. Duncan was more than willing to accept that invitation and his teeth closed gently on the soft, cream colored skin. Methos shuddered in his arms.

 

With a whispered gasp Methos raked his fingers through Duncan’s shoulder length hair, twining one of the dark tresses around his fingers, “Oh God, Duncan, me too. It feels as if I’ve known you forever, and yet...Why have you spent so much time looking for Methos, surely not because you believe the legend that I’m the oldest of our kind?” his voice trailed off as Duncan leaned forward letting his lips close over the small well formed mouth, drinking in the other man scent.

 

“I have seen your image in my mind almost every day of my life, wanted you for longer than I can even remember.  Every lover that I have ever had was just a substitute for you.” Duncan said then groaned as Methos nuzzled the skin of his throat, nipping then licking his way across Duncan’s jaw from ear to ear.

 

Raising his hand, Methos let his fingers brush through the other man’s hair, twisting the tie, and letting it fall to the ground. Duncan’s hair fell around his shoulders in a shimmering tumble of black tresses. Moaning softly Methos raked his fingers through it, shivering as an image came to him of MacLeod in leather armor astride a pale horse, blue woad painting his face. He ran his fingers over Duncan’s face along the imaginary line the woad would lay.

 

Closing his eyes Duncan groaned softly again, and then he lunged bringing his mouth to Methos’ mouth devouring the other man. Methos gasped as he grew achingly erect immediately.

 

“Oh, God, stop,” Methos whimpered, but Duncan ran his hands down Methos’ shoulders, stroking his sides, finally grasping his trim waist. Moaning again Methos pushed the other man away, “Duncan, why should I feel this attraction to you, I don’t make it a habit of getting involved with other Immortals. Why do I feel so drawn to you?”

 

Sighing Duncan smiled slowly, “You asked me why I was so obsessed with finding Methos. It’s because I have felt all my life that I belonged with you.”

 

“Yes, oh yes...” Methos said pressing himself against the other man. Duncan growled lips seeking the soft skin behind Methos ear, nibbling and licking. Methos gasped walking backwards to the bed he had seen earlier.  They struggled out of their clothes between kisses and nips. Finally Duncan lifted Methos up bodily and dropped him a few inches onto the bed. Methos lay sprawled; legs spread a thin sheen of perspiration causing his skin to glow in the low lamp light.

 

With a grin the Highlander dropped on the lean, wiry body. Methos grunted but moaned again when the other man began nipping and licking the length of his body. Methos’ cock was dark red, glistening with pre-come and Duncan swirled his tongue around the head, then sucked Methos length into his throat. Throwing his head back he howled bucking his hips upwards as Duncan sucked his cock.

 

“Oh God, Duncan, slide around here so that I can reach you...” Methos hissed, and the other man complied. Suddenly he rolled onto his side pulling Methos up then over his prone form; carefully he used his hands on Methos’ hips to guide the other man’s thrusts into his mouth. With a growl Methos attacked Duncan’s cock, sucking it down with an audible moan.

 

Release came in a hot rush and both men subsided on the bed with a sigh. Finally Methos rolled over nipping at the other man’s thigh, “Do you know how dangerous that was? Kalas is out there, and we were both distracted. My sword is in the doorway.”

 

“We’ll just have to remember to lock the doors next time.”

 

 “Next time? Duncan aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself here? I’ve never had a relationship with another Immortal. Hell, I don’t even believe in love at first sight.” Methos said laying back letting the other man pet him. Duncan sighed again moving around so that he could look into Methos’ troubled green-gold eyes.

 

“I do. For so long now, you have been a dream of mine.”

 

“Do you really mean that?” Methos said smiling, as a blush colored his deeply etched cheeks. Duncan grinned tracing a finger over the fine, smooth skin. He nodded. Methos rolled over stretching, enjoying the feel of his muscles gliding over the bone. Duncan drank in the sight as if he was trying to absorb the other man through his skin, into the very core of his being. He leaned forward drawing Methos into a gentle kiss, stroking his tongue over every surface of the other man’s mouth. Methos shuddered under his touch, grasping the broad shoulders that were so new, and yet felt so familiar. Pouting a little he glanced down as Duncan abandoned Methos mouth in favor of the tiny, golden nubs decorating each breast, bathing first one then the other with his tongue until they tingling red hardened peaks.

 

Licking his way down the long, pale body Duncan stroked his cheeks over the now firming cock that bumped his chin, then nuzzled the light furred sacs beneath, moving on to touch the tip of his tongue to the tight furl of muscle guarding the entrance to the other man’s body. Methos’ eyes rolled up and he howled, twisting the sheets in his clenched fists.

 

Chuckling Duncan thrust his tongue into the tight ring, warming and loosening it with his movements, bathing the flesh in saliva. When he was certain that Methos was ready, as if the panted cursing and invectives weren’t enough, he slid forward, sinking into the tight channel with a long, shuddering moan. He thrust inside the other man, varying the tempo and speed, drawing out the pleasure as long as possible, but finally it was over as Methos cried out, back arching, and climaxed. Duncan could feel the spurts of hot semen hitting his chest and glanced down, but Methos’ hands were still fisted in the bedclothes, and Duncan realized the other man had come just from Duncan being inside him. That thought alone was enough to send him over the edge. He came with a hoarse shout.

 

The sudden sense of Immortal presence hit them both just as the front door shuddered and banged open hitting the wall with a resounding clang. Duncan rolled off his new lover and made a dive for the katana under the bed. Methos scrambled to his feet still grasping the sheet, wrapping it hastily around his body. Well, he had fought with less on in the past.

 

The sheer size of the shadowy figure standing just inside the doorway was daunting enough however, and Methos winced until he saw Duncan go lax with recognition.

“Ah God you scared the hell out of us both.” he said sniggering. Methos shot him a look that said, “ _Are you crazy? A giant has just kicked in the door!”_

 

The figure shuffled inside and Duncan sighed again as the big man snickered himself staring at his friend’s lack of apparel. Walking over to Duncan he said, “Did you forget me, my friend?” 

 

Catching sight of Methos standing, still clutching the twisted sheets around himself, Silas answered his own question, by saying, “Well, Duncan, I would forget me for _that_ too.”

 

Methos blushed as the giant ambled over big paw stuck out. Duncan grinned, “Ah...Silas I want you to meet...”

 

“Adam Pierson.” Methos said giving Duncan a warning glance.

 

With a wide smile Silas seized the other Immortal’s hand, and the sheet drifted to the floor, “Any friend of Duncan’s...Ah nice.” he said making a flowing gesture in the air with one hand behind the smaller man’s back as Methos bent over to retrieve the only thing preserving what little modesty he had left.

 

Glancing up at the big man, Methos' brow wrinkled, “Have we met before?” he asked.

 

“Can’t say that we have, but I can’t say that we haven’t either.” Silas grinned as Duncan scrambled to retrieve his clothes.

 

“Well, how conclusive.” Methos shook his head also grabbing his jeans and sweater off the floor, frowning as he realized his boxers were nowhere to be found. The other men laughed. Turning to Duncan he said, “Do you mind if I get a quick shower?”

 

“Sure go ahead. Silas will protect me from Kalas until you get back.” Duncan said, and Methos rolled his eyes disappearing into the bathroom. Duncan gathered up the sheets tossing them back onto the bed, flushing as Silas made himself at home on the sofa.

 

“So who’s your friend?”

 

“I’d say he’s a little more than a friend, besides he came here to warn me someone was after me. An Immortal named Kalas.”

 

“Ah well. I don’t think that you have anything to worry about, between the three of us we’ll work it out.”

 

“Thanks Silas,” Duncan grinned over his shoulder as he traded places with Methos. Methos glanced up at the smiling giant, while he pulled on his socks and boots.

 

“So you’ve known Duncan a long time?”

 

“Aye, a long, long time,” Silas smiled and Methos felt himself warming to the simple, but good natured Immortal. They chatted companionably until Duncan joined them, then Methos rose heading for his coat. Turning he glanced at the other men.

 

“We still need to do something about the Kalas problem, why don’t we all go out and discuss it?  Work out some plans. I have a friend that owns a place near here. Hot blues and cold beer. What do you say? I’m buying.”

 

 

The End

 

 

 


End file.
